


A Little Love

by cconroy1



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 10:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19926247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cconroy1/pseuds/cconroy1
Summary: I wanted to explore an aspect of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship I don't see explored very often. For them to share a kind of love that comes in moments that aren't explicitly physical or verbal. The kind of love I see in the book and show. The kind of love that comes in doing something uncomfortable for the sake of the person you adore. To indulge them, even if you don't like it, or if it goes against your moral code. To try.This is my first piece of fanfiction ever.





	A Little Love

I stood there, the brink of the mosh pit enamoured by the energy of the venue. The thick steely rip of the guitar strings that tore through the air, threatening to open a hole in space and time. The band’s flesh that oozed maggots and rot right there on the stage, who flinched with each power chord played by the lead guitarist. The crowd whose harrowing moans seemed to harmonise with the coarse air waves that shook every patron’s heart. I had heard people describe enjoying music as a kind of resonance, but I had never seen it actualised like this.

In the midst of it all, at the threshold of the stage, Crowley stood. Shirtless. Guitar dripping from his waist, and lyrics dripping from his lips. He carried himself like a snake, his head far forward, guiding the rest of his body onward. His eyes were caged behind a pair of mesh framed sunglasses. It was a wonder he could see anything at all. The dim stage lights granted him the kind of red aura that in a dark room, had the profound tendency to blur the boundaries of reality. Was that sweat that beaded on his forehead and slowly found a path down the rest of his body, coming to an end at the edge of his belt. Or did his skin actually just move and flow in time with the music. 

As the band played on, I grew more withdrawn. This had never been my scene and the lemonade I had been nursing for the last twenty minutes was nothing to write home about. A part of me didn’t want to enjoy it the music. They said such provocative things in such provocative ways. You’d never see good old classical composers performing shirtless to a drugged audience who craves more than they have. You wouldn’t see modern composers acting like this. It wasn’t me. But the more I listened, and the more the drown of the pit crept its way into my heart, the more I began to see its light.

One might begin to defend this kind of music by diminishing its demonic nature. If it is liked it must have within it some kind of good. If it is good, it can’t be demonic, right? But no, the devil himself rides shotgun in the haze of cigarette smoke that pools in the unventilated corners of this bar. It is devil’s work through and through. Frankly, its little shock to see someone like Crowley beckoning it. Where that seed of doubt found its place to sprout in my mind was in the inherent appeal of the work of the devil. That worried me. It scared me. I halted the joyful yet involuntary patting of my foot with a stern glare and turned for an exit. My heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Was my bow tie too tight? Was it right to be here? What would he think if I left? 

The music grew weaker and weaker as I searched aimlessly through the haze to find the exit. My breathing was more laboured than anyone ought to be proud of. Bow tie in hand and top button untied, the door to the rest of the world was a beacon of hope. I slammed it open, taking in all the air I could, exhaling only a thick cloud of smoke. Relief washed over me like a cold shower on a hot day. I uncuffed my sleeves and removed by coat, soaking in as much of the recent rainfall as I could in the drenched Soho backstreets of London. But as my anxiety faded, and I began to notice the white noise that my brain had invented to fill in the spaces once occupied by Crowley’s music, I couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty.


End file.
